THE BROTHERS
One by one, exhausted, but joyful, the trappers of the Free-Traders' Brotherhood straggled into their long-sought camp. Nearly all had small packs on their backs, as though the provisions secured had been distributed around evenly. In the lead, as usual, was Charley Seguis. At the end of the procession came two or three wounded trappers, supported by their comrades.
One of the first to greet the arrivals was Donald McTavish. His wonder at the skill and stamina that carried the men through that awful storm expressed itself in eagerness to assist in relieving men of their packs. The gaunt, half-starved five that had been left at Sturgeon Lake pounced upon the food, and, without more ado, started to brew pails of tea, and to thaw out meat. In the midst of his work, Donald suddenly found himself side by side with Bill Thompson, the voyageur who had arrived the night before. At a moment when they were unobserved, the old man spoke into the young man's ear.
“I want to see you alone at the earliest opportunity,” he said.
Donald looked at his companion in amazement, and saw something in the other's face that drew instant assent.
The story of Seguis's party was soon told. The men had been traveling hardly an hour when the storm overtook them. From an eminence, they had seen the pursuit of the Hudson Bay men, and, though they had run at top speed, the packs of provisions had retarded them to such an extent that their pursuers were gaining steadily. When the storm broke, however, these very provisions saved their lives, for the Hudson Bay men, being without means of shelter or sustenance, had given up the chase, rather than lose their lives in a pursuit of which the favorable outcome was so problematical. Seguis, striking into the usual trail to the camp, had overtaken his men that night, while they were still struggling on, and had ordered a halt. Confident of their safety, they had camped, and then resumed their march at daybreak, finding their bearings, and keeping them, by the skill known to woodcraft.
It was now noon, and there was still no abatement in the storm. After a good meal, Donald sought out Bill Thompson, while the other men huddled in their tents, and recounted the experiences of the hazardous march.
“Didn't I hear somebody call you McTavish?” asked the old trapper, suddenly dropping the garrulousness that had characterized him so far, and looking at the young man out of keen gray eyes.
“Yes.” Donald's perplexity at this strange interview increased.
“Son of the commissioner, are you?”